Another man was dead.
That was the topic of conversation that morning.
According to The Queen’s Daily, a man had been shot to death at the junction of East District Irins and the Inner City. Due to its proximity to the wealthy Inner City, the patrols arrived quickly, but as with many cases before, they found nothing.
The autopsy by Su Yalan Hall revealed the man had been hit point-blank by a shotgun, the scattered pellets shredding the front of his body beyond recognition.
However, based on his tanned skin and faint fishy odor, Su Yalan Hall speculated he was a sailor. What they couldn’t understand was why this sailor had been there that day—far from the harbor, with no apparent reason to visit.
Another unsolved case, at least in the public’s eyes.
No one was surprised, let alone panicked. By now, everyone was used to it.
This was Old Dunling, the heart of Inverweg and the world, where humanity’s first steam engine had been born.
Thus, countless foreigners arrived here daily, some chasing wealth, some knowledge, some power.
The excessive influx of people had degraded security, leading Old Dunling to divide into four districts, nested like rings.
At the center was the political core of Inverweg, where Platinum Palace, residence of Queen Victoria, stood, guarded by the Royal Third Mobile Force. Beyond that was the Inner City, home to the city’s elite, enjoying 24-hour patrol protection. Further out were the four zones of the Outer City, housing most residents and forming the city’s largest district. Finally, there was the Lower City.
Access to each district depended on one’s papers. Dress in rags, and you’d never enter the Outer City, stuck instead in the Lower City—a place that, in many ways, wasn’t a district at all.
Originally a slum, the Lower City had swelled with migrants until its scale forced magistrates to acknowledge it. What emerged was a chaotic, lawless zone, home to the city’s largest black market and a graveyard for secrets, a hair’s breadth away from the “civilized” world everyone else chased.
The dead sailor was from the Lower City. To Inverweg’s residents, Lower City folk weren’t even human—just filth defiling their perfect city.
So his death became gossip, forgotten by all except one person: the one who killed him.
Burton walked through the Lower City. Infrastructure degraded with distance from the center, and here, at the edge, it might as well not exist. His boots sank into muddy streets; he’d rather die than be here if not for a living.
A blackened deerstalker hat shaded his blond hair, a maroon tie clung to his chest, and a voluminous gray-black overcoat hid the firearm beneath. He gripped a cane, frequently checking his pocket watch, playing the part of a hurried merchant.
Burton’s attire was unremarkable, blending with passersby, but in the Lower City, he looked like easy prey.
Eyes from various corners watched the “fat lamb.” This wasn’t patrol territory; deaths here rarely drew investigation. The Lower City’s population churned daily with arrivals by ship—anyone could be a target, but locals knew who to avoid.
A few newcomers sized him up, whispering plans to divide his belongings: his overcoat, his watch.
Others ignored them. In the Lower City’s black market economy, only gang members dared rob openly, and interfering meant getting dragged into their mess.
On the filthy street, the men surrounded Burton, hostile glares fixed.
“Nice clothes, friend,” sneered the leader, eyeing Burton’s watch, which looked more valuable than it seemed.
“If I were you, I’d reconsider,” Burton said wearily, accustomed to this routine.
This was the Lower City. He’d killed fools in front of crowds, expecting to earn respect, but each visit brought the same hassle. He’d suspected a vendetta, but realized later the problem was simpler: the fools kept dying, replaced by new ones.
The Lower City was a transient hub for foreigners—legally unprotected by Inverweg, its inhabitants not recognized as citizens. Beyond lay the Thames Estuary, the kingdom’s largest harbor. People here might vanish on fishing boats to distant seas overnight.
Gangs also played a role. Black market profits were finite, leading to daily turf wars. Bodies were dumped in the Thames, then collectively incinerated.
Not that anyone remembered Burton; they just died too quickly.
Knives flashed before him. Before he could decide how to deal with the thugs, the clatter of hooves interrupted. A black carriage halted, and the coachman, without hesitation, drew a pistol and fired at the gangsters.
He was precise, efficient—aged but sharp. In seconds, the thugs lay dead at Burton’s feet. Panicked screams emptied the street, leaving only him and the coachman.
“Mr. Holmes?” The coachman squinted, though his shooting had been flawless.
“It’s me.”
Glancing at the carriage’s crest, Burton climbed on, sitting not in the cabin but beside the coachman.
“Who were they?” Burton asked, eyeing the bodies with disgust.
“Stowaways. More and more lately—criminals thinking Old Dunling offers a fresh start, but they can’t let go of their pasts… Still acting like thugs, causing trouble.”
The coachman snapped the reins, the carriage jolting through mud.
“Doesn’t Boro handle this?”
“The Boss is busy. Two gangs are about to war over territory—they control key businesses. Boro doesn’t care who wins, but their conflict will hurt profits. Their lives aren’t worth that much.”
“Hm… sounds like him,” Burton nodded.
“By the way, Mr. Holmes, please send word next time. I’ll fetch you, avoid unnecessary incidents.” The coachman spoke like a butler, solicitous.
Burton nodded, silent. Though they’d just set off, their destination was already in sight.
Beyond crumbling buildings loomed a hidden castle, a patchwork of rubble, tattered flags, and iron frames—like an artist’s deranged masterpiece.
He exited, tipping his hat to the coachman, a mannerism drilled into him during etiquette lessons, now second nature.
Approaching the eerie castle, the half-open door swung wide, revealing the Lower City’s true face.
Gone was the squalor; here, luxury rivaled the Inner City, a leap from slum to Platinum Palace.
Late October, the air crisp, yet entering sent a wave of heat through Burton—both physical and visceral.
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The space expanded infinitely, gold-paneled walls adorned with costly paintings, marble floors mirroring figures. Masked attendants circulated with trays, serving drinks at ornate gambling tables.
A soprano’s voice echoed from a central platform, elevating the casino’s haze. Incense burned in exquisite iron cages, a subtle stimulant to push hesitant gamblers to bet it all.
This was the Lower City’s reality: a den of excess, where nobles laundered wealth through “gambling,” daily transactions dwarfing ordinary sums. Aristocrats seeking thrills flocked here—VIPs in this lawless haven.
Boro had told him this much: by Inverweg’s laws, everyone here deserved life in prison, which would decimate a third of the noble class.
No one stopped Burton. Unlike the short-lived foreigners outside, those here knew his reputation.
Through an iron door, he descended to the depths, meeting his client.
The man wore a silver mask etched with thorns and a bird, the symbol of the Butcherbird. Seated behind an oak desk, the room thick with incense, a gramophone crooning, he’d been conducting an invisible orchestra until Burton’s entrance shattered the trance.
“Welcome, my friend!” he smiled, extending a hand.
This was Boro, ruler of the Lower City, whom all gangs bowed to: Butcherbird Boro.
Burton dropped into a chair opposite, blunt as ever.
“There was nothing on him. He died like a madman, couldn’t ask anything, no clues.”
“Hm? Is that so?” Boro pulled a glass from under the desk, pouring his favorite liquor. “Burton, you’re the best detective I’ve seen. You found more than that, surely.”
Burton sighed, obliging.
“Just speculation.”
“Speculate.” Boro leaned in, intrigued—Holmes never disappointed.
“I traced his movements through drug dealers. A Lower City sailor, modest income, but daily buying hallucinogens. When I found him, he’d injected a lethal dose.
Mumbling incoherently, and with Inner City patrols nearby, I couldn’t get much…
I think he witnessed something, something that terrified him into numbing himself with drugs.”
His voice was soft, recounting a haunting tale.
“Why fear?” Boro fixated on the word.
“Because I shot him in the chest—dozens of pellets shredding his heart and lungs. Even on hallucinogens, he’d feel pain, regain clarity.
People fear death, Burton. A little pressure, and in his final moments, he’d have told me everything.”
“But he didn’t. Babbled in a foreign tongue… Face destroyed, but I saw relief, not pain.
Like I wasn’t killing him, but freeing him from a nightmare.”
Boro froze, ignoring the speculation, focusing on the act.
“You killed him? You were supposed to bring him alive!”
“Pardon?” Burton blinked.
“You didn’t say take him alive. And remember your role: I’m Boro, wanted by nobles and gangs. They’d kill to replace me.
This was for your safety. Anyone linking you to me risks exposing this ‘important matter.’ A dead sailor? No one connects it to you.”
He set down the glass, gesturing vaguely. “A win-win.”
“Your ‘win-win’ is killing the only lead and drinking my liquor?” Boro’s tone turned icy, pulling a revolver from beneath the desk—silver, engraved with reliefs of ghosts and spirits, too elegant for a weapon.
“Burton, you’re my employee. Disobedience doesn’t earn pay… it earns bullets.”
Without looking up, he loaded five cartridges, leaving one chamber empty, then spun the cylinder, muzzle trained on Burton.
“You’re brilliant, but this was foolish… Care to gamble? One in six chance.”
Boro’s stare was deadly serious—no jest.
Burton’s smirk faded.
“Fine, you’re no fun.”
He waved a hand, trying to push the gun aside, but Boro held firm.
Knowing he had no choice, Burton began under the barrel.
“I tracked him for days. His name was Vohl, a Viking from the Northern Seas. Abandoned by his crew, he lingered near drug dealers, no sign of returning to port.
When you gave me this case, you said he had a ‘secret’—but no name, no background, nothing. Clean, until I saw him inject hallucinogens.”
“So?” Boro pressed, unusually invested in Vohl.
“Ridiculous, right?” Burton mimicked injecting a needle into his neck.
“A full dose—lethal for most. He’d been doing this for days; drug dealers confirmed it.
I tested on a Viking here—one dose, and he was foaming at the mouth.”
“Vohl’s body was abnormal?” Boro seized the point.
“Extremely. And aggressive—he killed at least six people for money. Yes, I killed him, but he asked for it.”
Burton recalled that night: steam rising, Zeppelin searchlights casting his shadow over Vohl’s twisted form, blood oozing from each pellet hole, the sailor’s throat gurgling in a tongue he didn’t understand, but the message was clear:
Kill me. End this.
“So I drove my cane sword through the bullet wounds.”
He unsheathed the cane, its wooden casing splitting to reveal a blade.
“Pierced his spine… Carotid artery burst, internal bleeding. He should’ve died quickly, but the strange thing came next.”
As Burton spoke, Boro leaned in, visualizing the scene.
“He should have died… brain dead, but his heart kept pounding, pumping blood from every hole.
Biologically impossible. I stabbed his heart to stop it—that finally killed the body.”
Silence. Boro frowned, lost in thought. Burton sipped wine, knowing Boro’s stock was top-shelf—might as well enjoy it.
“You should’ve brought the body.”
“Pointless.”
“Pointless? You saw the abnormalities!” Boro snapped, fury rising.
“Bring it where? This is a casino, not a morgue. You have enforcers, no coroner… Know how many bones are in the human body?”
He scoffed, continuing: “Vohl’s corpse is in Victoria Central Hospital’s morgue, being dissected by graduates of the Royal College of Medicine who slogged years to get here.
They’ll carve him up, catalog every anomaly in their reports. And right now, those reports are waiting for me to collect.”
He checked his watch. “Two hours until they clock out. Any more questions?”
